16 June 2014

The Call Centre

I rang my Bank
this morning - for an account enquiry. I dialed with trepidation and I was
hoping for some human contact. As I expected though a cheerful machine voice answered
my call and I was first given a set of commands and was then asked a series of
questions.

The first
command I was given was for me to press ‘one’ for instructions in English -
then press the # button.

Too easy.

I was then ordered
to input my sixteen-digit account number - yes sixteen fucking digits - then press
the # button. The machine lady then asked me to input my six-digit telephone
banking code – and then press the # button.

I was prepared
for all of this.

I did what I
was told.

The next few
minutes were frantic and frenetic.

They were
electric.

I was sent into
a number selecting frenzy. I picked option three. Internet Banking enquiry – I
then pressed the # button. I selected option two next - overseas
transfers - then I pressed the # button. Option four - payment not recorded - then
once again I pressed the # button.

Then I waited.

I persevered.

I was
patient.

Music then
played. It was dreadful music that I suspect was designed to drive me mad in
the hope to get me to hang up. I intermittently received a recorded message. This
voice was male.

It was
commanding.

It was
soothing.

It said “Your
call important to us. All of our customer services officers are currently busy
at the moment. Please hold and we will transfer your call as soon as one is
available”.

Although I knew
that this statement was a lie I persisted. My call was not at all important to
these people and they knew it. Every three minutes the recorded message was
repeated. I know this because I timed it. One hundred and eighty seconds.
Eleven times. Thirty-three minutes. By now my patience had eroded and madness
was beginning to engulf me. I was riled.

I was annoyed.

I was vexed.

Eventually I
heard a human voice and I was momentarily elated.

“How can I
address you?” was
the opening line.

“I am Peter” I replied.

“May I call
you Mr. Peter?” was the next polite enquiry.

“You may” I responded.

“It is my
name”.

“May I ask
for yours?” I
requested.

There was a
pause. A deliberation. There was some palpable hesitation.

Eventually, “My
name is Rajesh” was uttered.

“Before we
proceed,” said
Rajesh,

“I will be
needing to ask you some security questions”.

‘I understand” I retorted.

“I will be
needing to be asking you a few myself”

There was another pause here – a slightly longer one than before.

“May I have
your full name Mr. Peter?”

“May I have
yours first please Mr. Rajesh?”

Remember, I had
been waiting for thirty-three minutes. I had been purposefully lost in the
machine and I now craved some human communication. There was a silence.

It was
deafening.

“Are you
there Mr. Rajesh?” I enquired.

“Can you
hear me?”

Rajesh’s voice
was hesitant.

There was a
little tremor in his voice when he replied “My name is Rajesh Adapa Gupta”

I asked him to
spell it as I wrote it down. I then gave him my name. He asked me to spell it.
I assume he entered it into a computer for I could hear a keyboard clicking.

I could hear it
clacking as well.

Data was being
entered.

“Now I will
be needing your date of birth,” asked Rajesh.

“But first I
will be needing yours” I rebutted.

“But why?” Rajesh asked. I could
hear the rising anxiety in his voice now.

“Security” I responded.

“I need to
know that you are who you say you are”

We then swapped
dates of birth. Rajesh did so less willingly than me. For the record, he is a
Virgo and I am an Aries.

We are destined
to clash.

“I have one
more question Mr. Peter,” said Rajesh.

There was frisson
in his voice. I could feel his distress. I could taste his fear.

“Me too. Mr.
Rajesh” I
asserted.

“Me too.”

“I am be needing
the maiden name of your mother Mr. Peter - or the naming of your first pet”, he whispered.

“Please sir.
Do not be asking mine”

“But I am be
needing to as well Mr. Rajesh” I replied.

“I simply
must”

I thought I
heard a wail before I was disconnected. Despite my enquiry going unanswered I
felt a perverse degree of satisfaction.